Scott Roarke 01 - Executive Actions

by Gary Grossman

  “I think all of your questions will be answered shortly.” The president, still standing, finally took his seat.

  “A member of the Kharrazi family, in a plan that was acquired through Syria by way of Iraq, has been controlling a number of sleepers—deep cover spies—on a slow, sure and deliberate track.

  “Great patience went into making this scheme succeed. Over many years. It was conceived following the Yom Kippur War in ’73. According to our intelligence, this plan was originally the work of Syrian President Hafez Al-Assad. He controlled it for the next twenty-seven years.”

  Solid intelligence, thought Goldman. She blurted out a question to the CIA Director “Twenty-seven years, Jack?” How long have we known about this? Or in my case, not known about it,” she coldly added for the rest of the room.

  Evans looked to the president for permission to answer. He got what he expected.

  “I’ll come to that, Eve,” Taylor stated. She wrote a notation on the file in front of her. Indictments.

  “After Al-Assad died, his son passed the plan, no I should say, sold the plan to Uday Hussein, you remember, one of Saddam’s boys. We have no idea how much was paid. But the goal remained the same.”

  “Just days before the fall of Saddam and his family, Uday contacted a friend in Libya with his own political aspirations—Fadi Kharrazi. He wanted to unload the plan, perhaps in an attempt to negotiate a safe haven for himself or for hard currency. Why Fadi? We’re not sure, but it does suggest that Saddam and his sons were aware of plans for a coup in Libya even if they weren’t around to see it through. In fact, Hussein could have helped fund the revolution which brought General Kharrazi and his family to power. Jack has the CIA gathering further intelligence on that matter. But as I said, Fadi bought the plan from Uday, lock, stock, and ultimately barrel. His purpose was three-fold. On a basic level to give him political clout at home. Second, to move up in the favored line of succession. Third, and most importantly, to upset the balance of power in the Middle East by affecting or maybe better, infecting the American political process. That relates to a fourth point which I’ll get to shortly.”

  The president reached for the glass of water in front of him.

  “Please, Mr. President?” It was Eve Goldman. “Again. How long have we known? I need to see all of the evidence immediately.”

  “And what about the impact on our allies?” Secretary of State Drysdale added. “Since I also seem to have been kept out of the loop, when can I expect to see if or how we’ve been compromised?” She was obviously annoyed. It appeared to her that once again the boys ruled this club. She assumed Eve was equally pissed.

  Morgan Taylor slowly sipped his water. He wanted to press on, but decided to answer her in the briefest of terms.

  “First of all, Joyce, I said there has been an attempt. It has not fully succeeded. Not yet. To your question Eve, we’ve only known for a very short amount of time. And no, we’re not prepared for you to go further right now. Let me continue.”

  Goldman slowly nodded knowing that Morgan Taylor would play this out on his own time table.

  The president cleared his throat and proceeded. “Once Kharazzi’s father came to power the plan became more realistic to Fadi. And now, with the General dying, Fadi is in the catbird seat thanks to his long-term investment.”

  “It’s still not clear to me,” SecState added. “For what purpose?”

  “Oh, that’s the easiest part.”

  “Fadi bought a very well managed and comprehensive operation, some thirty years in the making, that placed agents in the U.S., trained at a very special Soviet school called Red Banner.”

  “Trained to be what?”

  “To be Americans,” the president snapped. “Sleepers. Long-term assets. Likely from Syria originally, but we’re not certain.

  “I’ll explain how they were inserted into life here and what happened to them over the course of three decades. How they grew up, entered college, and launched successful careers. How people were killed to assure their secrecy and how they advanced to the critical point we’re at today. Make no mistake, this has been an extremely well-financed operation. We believe the ultimate goal, still operational, is to destabilize Israel by illegally influencing the government of the United States and changing public opinion here.”

  “Influencing?” Secretary of State Drysdale wondered aloud. “How? How would they get someone in the White House?”

  “Right through the front door,” Taylor solemnly concluded. “They’ve plotted to take over the Executive Branch, with the unknowing help of the American people. And if we don’t stop them, come January 20th we’ll have a Russian-trained, Arab national spy serving as the elected President of the United States.”

  “Now for the bad news. At this point, nothing can be positively proven,” the president said. “This meeting is about getting that proof.”

  Eight men and two woman declared in unison, “Yes, sir.”

  “J3, it’s all yours.” The president turned over the briefing to General Johnson, the head of us Special Operations Command, or USASOC. The general had been meeting with his senior command and Jack Evans since 0500 that morning.

  The fifty-six-year old black man slowly rose from his chair. He spoke with authority; his voice as big as his huge frame. General Jonas Jackson Johnson, or J3 as he had been called since West Point, expanded—the best possible way to describe his build—to 6’4”. He was the proud decendent of a decorated Allentown, Pennsylvania soldier who bravely fought for the Union against the South some 150 years earlier. He commanded attention in any group; this one being no exception.

  Morgan Taylor clearly viewed J3 as presidential material should he ever decide to hang up his uniform. But the General represented the fourth generation of his family to earn stars on his shoulders—in his case, four of them. He had no desire to wear anything but Army green for the rest of his career. Now he proudly served as Taylor’s senior officer in the Army Special Forces.

  A slight drawl accent added some gentility to his otherwise tough demeanor. He used it now.

  “Gentlemen. Ladies. Thanks to information provided by Mr. Evan’s own asset, code name Sandman, the objective is this building.” J3 pointed to the monitor. A freeze frame of Fadi’s complex now filled the screen. The picture was not from the roll taken by Vinnie D’Angelo. His film and memory chips had been seized by Abahar Kharrazi’s men. This was a satellite image captured from 250 miles away at roughly 35 off access. It showed the building with amazing clarity.

  “With the help of the Pentagon,” he acknowledged Secretary of Defense Gregoryan with a nod, “we’re going in very secretly. We may be exiting with a little more noise. The top floor is our hard target.” The pictures were being fed from a laptop computer. The general pressed a key and the picture zoomed in tighter. “Specifically the southwest corner office.

  “Rear Admiral Boulder Devoucoux is readying the USS Carl Vinson for staging. He reports we will be operational in twelve days. In the meantime, we’ve been training at a site we constructed in Kentucky. We’re aiming for the night of a new moon. Total darkness. December 18th. In two weeks we’ll take the building without signing in at the front desk.”

  “Rock and roll,” Roarke said under his breath. He knew that subtlety was not one of the rear admiral’s traits, hence the nickname “Boulder.”

  “Boulder Johnson’s flying shit cans,” J3’s terms for the Black Hawks, “will be dropping the team in. Air support will close down the nearby streets. Our intel reports that what we’re looking for is contained in Fadi’s file cabinets. We’re going to extract not just one, but a whole bank of them. In and out in under four minutes. A little faster than Atlas Van Lines.” He paused and took a breath. “And then everyone’s coming home.”

  “In front of you are our plans. Please open them now.”

  J3 waited until everyone had ripped open their materials and the paper shuffling had subsided.

  “Going forward, this is ‘Operatio
n Quarterback Sneak’ Swift. Daring. And dangerous.”

  The participants read along as J3 reviewed the strategy. Twelve minutes later, the general asked the obvious. “Questions?”

  “What if the files have been destroyed?” the attorney general proposed.

  Jonas Johnson looked to the president and read his eyes very clearly. “Madam, I’d say we have one helluva problem to deal with back home. They’re our proof.”

  “And if the files are there and you get them back?” Secretary of State Drysdale asked.

  “Then, Joyce, we have one helluva problem to deal with back home.”

  With that they began discussing the operation and the biographies of the principals who would comprise the assault team.

  They’d been training as a unit for weeks.

  Lethal firepower would come from two men: The Army’s Special Forces best sharp shooters, Sgt. Andrew Aplen and Lt. Lee Gardner.

  The communications officer, Lt. Shawn Recht, would keep USA-SOC focused on the maneuver every step of the way, while also providing the eyes and ears for the internal communications on ground. Recht was backed up by Sgt. Wil Jones who was a good second with a camera, but first with a knife.

  And at the command was Colonel Samuel Langeman. Langeman grew up in Tulsa, and by all accounts, should have died on the streets long ago. But he was always bigger than everybody else. And that kept gang members away. He hated being called Samuel or Sam. Nobody dared. So for as long as he could remember, his name merged into simply Slange.

  As a member of the Special Forces, Slange had no equals. He was a 6’ combination of pure muscle and intellect. That’s why he had the command.

  Aplen liked him the most. He shared the Special Forces spirit and, like Slange, had a survivor’s instinct. Alpen was a Missouri boy, age twenty-nine, an avid hunter and the son of an Olympic rifler. He excelled at everything. Aplen was the best marksman in the Special Forces, the strongest swimmer, and the quietest commando. He hardly spoke. Most people never knew he was around even when he was at work.

  Gardner was the brain in the group and yet the one most easily bored. That’s why Harvard didn’t offer enough challenges. He sought more excitement and turned to the military. When he found the basics too mundane he discovered Special Forces school in Florida. Finally Gardner had a place to express himself physically and mentally. At age thirty-one, he was on his first real mission. He’d already memorized everything about the plan and was eager to go.

  Recht, age 30, always chewed gum. Ordinarily a superior wouldn’t allow it. But for Recht, there were special allowances. He could make a radio out of wrappers and used his ABC gum like solder. Recht was a ham radio operator by nine. He had an internet TV station at fourteen and a patent for a collapsable parabolic reflector when he was fifteen. It was the only one ever registered with two key components found in a pack of Juicy Fruit.

  At age twenty-six, Sgt. Wil Jones was the “kid” of the group. But experience made up for age. Jones could double everyone’s job and kill without prejudice. Slange knew his skills and was alive today because of them.

  General Johnson had one additional point to make, but the president cut him off.

  “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, J3,” he said.

  “Certainly, Mr. President.”

  “I should explain to everyone what we have in mind for Lt. Recht and Sgt. Jones,” Morgan Taylor began. “They’re the cameramen. They’ll be shooting the entire time. I want them protected as if they were what we were goddamned looking for. This entire mission must be on camera. Every second of it. It’ll come back simultaneously to command and also archived on DVD. I want to see live pictures, focused on the operation and then on the man carrying the files, once they are in our control. No camera cuts. From the time they leave the deck of the Vinson right through their return.

  “That camera isn’t going to stop down for anything. The entire operation, for better or worse, will be documented.”

  Everyone understood. The president could not be accused of creating a diversion merely to hold onto his office. Not by Democrats, not by Kharrazi. The evidence had to be totally verifiable. Morgan Taylor’s place in history, let alone the very foundation of the president-elect, would rise and fall on what the cameras revealed.

  “The floor is your’s again, General.”

  “Thank you, sir. My men will be coming back with more than just one set of files.”

  He had everyone’s undivided attention.

  “We’re going to load up every fucking thing we can put our hands on.” J3 smiled at the attorney general. “Pardon my French, Ms. Goldman, but we want everything there is. Everything.”

  There was no disagreement at this table today.

  One-hour later

  “Scott. Stay for a moment, please,” the president asked as Roarke was preparing to leave.

  “Yes boss.”

  After everyone cleared the room, leaving their folders for shredding, only Morgan Taylor and Scott Roarke remained.

  “Wondering why you’re here?”

  “No question in my mind. My guess is that you want one person holding the goods.” He smiled at his friend. “I’d say that was me, sir.”

  “You got that one hundred percent.”

  “And I’ll hand deliver it to you right here.”

  “You won’t have to go that far, my boy.”

  Now Roarke was confused.

  “You’ll give them to me in the Med.”

  “What!” Roarke exclaimed. “You’re completely craz—” Taylor held up one hand to stop him in mid sentence.

  “Aboard the USS Carl Vinson,” the president finished stating.

  “You can’t.”

  “Oh, I think I can. And I will.”

  “You’re the President of the United States of America. Not a fucking Top Gun anymore.”

  “Unless you’ve forgotten, Scott, I am the Top Gun—Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces. And there’s a coup going on. I want to be the first to see the evidence. The very first. And then I’m going to hunt down the entire ring of conspirators if it’s the last thing I do—in office or out.”

  Roarke settled into his chair in the briefing room and laughed.

  “You’re really going to do it.”

  “You bet your sweet ass,” the president said.

  CHAPTER

  54

  Saturday 6 December

  By no means did Jack Evans consider the insertion routine. “But surprise will be on our side. It’s the exfiltration where we could have problems. Hopefully the little diversion we have planned will help,” he told the president.

  “And the damned weather?” the president asked. “The latest?”

  “Not good and not getting any better.”

  “What’s the worst conditions we can accept as operational?

  “Something better than what they’re getting. I’ll get the risk assessment and then we can make the decision.”

  The morning briefing then went onto India and Pakistan and a suicide bombing outside of the U.N.

  FOUR DEAD IN TERRORIST SUICIDE BOMBING.

  Ibrahim Haddad put the paper down. The whole idea was to stay alive and see change through. Not die by blowing yourselves up, he thought. These people. What was the benefit in that? Such a stupid way of trying to accomplish the goal.

  Haddad considered himself smarter than the martyrs who disintegrated in an instant of misplaced glory. He had plotted for decades, strategizing for the day at hand; a day that would begin to reshape the allegiances of the world. Yet, he would have to be patient. A few more weeks, that’s all. The new president would need time to redraw the map.

  Roarke joined up with the team at the staging area in Kentucky. He was weeks behind in training, but he only needed to master the basics: Where to go once he jumped off the chopper. What to do when he got inside. How to get out safely with his package in hand.

  For any typical civilian, it would have been impossible to assimilate into a tight un
it on a critical mission. But Roarke was not a typical civilian. He was in excellent physical shape. While the rigors didn’t bother him, the weather did. He knew the reputation of the Black Hawks in less than ideal conditions. It was the unspoken worry among the team.

  Roarke had one more concern. What could he tell Katie. The answer was—very little.

  “Hi, hon,” he started in a call from a telephone booth.

  He hadn’t seen Katie in weeks, although they spoke regularly.

  “Hey, you. Where are you now.”

  “Visiting.” That was their shorthand for him not being able to talk. “Then I’ve got an errand to run.” Which meant he’d be busy for awhile.

  She didn’t speak up, mostly out of fear. Roarke read the sign.

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “I understand,” she said. Then Katie corrected herself. “No. No. That’s completely wrong. I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of it. I haven’t seen you. When you call, you can’t…” She hesitated knowing she should be careful.

  “I can’t. I wish I could.” Roarke didn’t like hiding things from Katie.

  He heard a deep sigh. “I wish you could, too.” Her voice trailed off. “And I can’t do anything to help.”

  They were both silent.

  “Katie?”

  “Yes.”

  “There may be something.”

  “Yes?”

  “Something you can do.”

  “Okay?”

  “Well…” He had to be careful. They were on an open line. “Let’s just call it Civics 101.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, You must have a copy of the U. S. Constitution at home, right?”

  “Sure. Only in about twenty of my law books. Why?”

  “Read it and think about our discussion a few weeks ago. I’ll get back to you later.”

  “But…”

  “That’s all. Just read it. And think of me. I’ll call you later, bye bye, sweetheart.”